SEVEN THINGS WE DON’T CARE ABOUT THIS WEEK: GOT POLLEN IF YOU WANT IT EDITION

“Not caring about things since 1971, so that you don’t have to.”

 

Johnny cash gives the bird_thumb_w_5807. People finally figuring out Woody Allen is a creepy, predatory sociopath. Oh, and a pedophile, too.

"Yo, Satan, can a brother get another ring?"

“Yo, Satan, can a brother get another ring?”

6. Coach K.

Yes, he’s undeniably one of the great coaches in college basketball history. Not only has he won it all five times, he’s won it in different decades with different teams blah blah blah.

(Yes, haters gonna hate, etc.)

And yes, he’s a whining, rat-faced prick. You can’t deny his greatness, just like you couldn’t deny Michael Jordan’s. That’s why it’s insufferable to see Coach K (or Air Jordan) working the refs, complaining about every non-call, getting every (EVERY) questionable call, and enjoying an ever-supine media ready to lap up the Duke-Blue blood that pumps his Dark-Black heart.

5. Anyone continuing to delude themselves that justice is color blind.

No video, no conviction. When this guy gets acquitted and becomes a regular on Fox News, we’ll have (further) definitive proof of how out of control our “police problem” has gotten and how far we have to go on the peskily lingering issue of race relations in America. It’s no longer the elephant in the room, it is the elephant.

I-can-haz-roadz1-300x225

4. Rand Paul being a thing.

And libertarianism being…anything.

Even in 2015?

(Of course. Even more so, as only we can prove in America: let things get worse and certain types of people will attach themselves, like backward gravity, to the most inane scams and idiot-ologies.)

Harold’s take on libertarianism, in short and in sum:

When Christians envision God they see themselves.

When Libertarians envision God they see dollar bills. (And worse, they read Ayn Rand. And worse still, feel enlightened. And worst of all, inspired. Hence, Rand Paul.)

ah-party

3. Indignant frat boys feigning outrage.

Thanks a lot Rolling Stone for fucking this one up so royally. Now we have to suffer the indignity of seeing smug frat boys threaten to sue for damages. By half-assing and embellishing a story that likely needed nothing of the sort, Rolling Stone made the  journalistic mistake of making itself the story, and now it is the story, for all the wrong reasons. It’s not merely that they botched this in ways both embarrassing and unforgivable, their blunder could end up having the exact opposite outcome of what the story intended: providing cover (however facile) for date-rapers and making it less likely a violated co-ed will report the crime.

At least Jann Wenner is holding his staff accountable. Oh, that’s right.

2. Brian Williams and his brain tumor.

I know, right?

As has been pointed out repeatedly, yet not often enough: the biggest sin Williams committed was not embellishing (okay, lying) about his he-man exploits in combat zones even though in this day and age anyone who doesn’t realize there is such a thing as fact-checking (except at Rolling Stone) or a little thing called The Internet deserves everything they get without a scintilla of pity, but rather the fact that by all accounts and evidence provided nightly for entirely too long, he is an incurious, dull, vain, half-intelligent, self-absorbed, delusional, vapid, unconvincing “entertainer”. In other words, he’s central casting for the role he played. Brian Williams is a “news man” like Ayn Rand is a “novelist”.

I know how you feel, brother.

I know how you feel, brother.

1. Having to endure eye socket-crushing pollen so soon after winter.

Yes, this winter sucked. The farther north you went, the more it sucked. Same as every year, only more so. So yes, it’s too soon for all of us whiners –who whined about how cold it was and who promised we wouldn’t whine when it got warm– to begin whining about allergy season bursting out from the no longer icy air like the cute little critter liberating himself from that dude’s stomach in Alien.

If only the trees practiced safe sex, we wouldn’t have all this unwanted pollen polluting our air. I think I read that in an Ayn Rand book.

(You see what I did there?)

About Harold D. Muir

Although not yet twenty, Harold D. Muir has launched numerous apps, lost a fortune in Bitcoin speculation, and ghost-written three novels. Born and raised in the UK by a now-disgraced headmaster father who led a double life as a football hooligan, Muir’s memoir Son of a Thug is currently being shopped to publishers. Presently at large in the U.S. and working on a screenplay, he credits his productivity to a regular diet of Absinthe, Bebop, and the kindness of librarians.
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